“A protest event that ultimately led to the . . .” What did the book call it? “The Revolutionary War.”

Atlas’s eyes widen.

“I told you, I read the book.”

“I keep underestimating you. I should probably stop doing that.”

The metal doors slide open, revealing a long hallway covered completely—the floor, the ceiling, and the walls—with large squares of dingy white and yellow ceramic tile. Long tubes of fluorescent lights shine down from above. We follow the hallway as it slants downward and to the left.

“Where are we?” I ask. “This isn’t anything like the entrance we went through before.”

“It’s an old pedestrian walkway. There are a bunch of them that connect buildings around the city. My grandfather and his friends removed some of the pedways from the city’s maps and then created new walls to separate them from the ones they didn’t take off the grid.”

“And no one noticed?”

“The City Pride Program was making so many changes it was hard for everyone to keep them straight. If anyone asked them what they were doing, grandfather’s friends created official-looking memos that said there were structural damages, which required certain pedways to be sealed. Then they swiped the paper files—like you did. People didn’t know how to verify what they were told.” He shrugged. “Sometimes, that’s useful.”

That’s what we are going to change.

The wide, tiled path slants downward a bit more. There is a large concrete wall in the distance, probably one of the walls that Atlas was just referring to, but we turn right before we get that far.

“We used to have a longer path to get to the tunnels, but my father thought it took too long and created his own here.”

A shadow passes over his eyes. Then he shakes his head and opens a door set back in an alcove. We slip inside to a concrete closet that has no light source. I kick a metal bucket and almost trip over an old mop as Atlas shoves a piece of plywood to the side, revealing a jagged hole in the concrete. When I duck my head I am able to fit through without any problem.

He grabs a lantern from the floor, turns it on, and heads right down the low, dirt-packed tunnel.

Since I’ve already been to the Lyceum, I assumed I knew what to expect. But when we step through a doorway built in the middle of a towering bookshelf, I find the place more magical than before. The lights from above are brighter. Or maybe it is the energy of the people—dozens of them hurrying with papers or boxes and some with suitcases or overnight bags—that makes it feel different.

Or maybe I am different, because when I step through the doorway I don’t see only books of all sizes and scarred wood shelves and paper—I see the potential to change the world. We just have to figure out how to do it.

“Well, we’re here,” Atlas says as we start walking through the shelves. “Now what?”